


Wreckage

by helens78



Series: Linked [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angry Sex, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Jealousy, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-14
Updated: 2003-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:56:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Geils's contracts ends not with a bang, but a whimper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> David Geils is an original character who ended up floating around the Chiaroscuro universe. He's a pretty big part of the landscape, so I decided to archive the stories of his that involve only original characters as well as the ones where he intersects with actor RPF. I hope that was the right decision... >_>
> 
> Geils was inspired by John James Urgayle of G.I. Jane.

Geils is exhausted. He's been working for the last 36 hours straight, and it's well past time to be home.

 _Home,_ he thinks, grinning as he parks his car in the garage and heads into the house. Home with his boy. Christ, and that's going to be worth the wait, isn't it? He drops his keys on the table by the door to the garage and wanders through the house to the kitchen. All right -- his boy's not there, and that's fine; he didn't call home to say he'd be getting there any minute. Upstairs, then.

Len is in bed, stretched out flat on his stomach across the sheet, half tucked under covers. He's still wearing bruises across his shoulders and neck, handprints on his upper arms and his hips, and that's all. And _damn_ does he look good that way. Geils grins. _Very fucking good, boy._

Geils sinks down next to Len and draws a hand up from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck, and then pins him down firmly. "Wake up," he murmurs.

Len jerks as he comes awake -- Len always jerks if Geils wakes him up in some awkward, surprising fashion -- and tries to roll over before realizing he's pinned down. He collapses into the mattress and moans softly. "Master," he whispers. "Missed you."

"Missed you, too, boy." Geils presses down a little harder. "Show me," he breathes, and lets Len up.

Len pushes up to his hands and knees while Geils turns over to sit on the edge of the bed, propped up on his elbows. Len slips out of bed and stands in front of Geils, and he starts unbuttoning Geils's shirt, impatient to feel skin before he even gets Geils's jacket off. Geils is content to lean back and enjoy the attentiveness for a few seconds before moving toward something more serious. He grins, looking over his boy.

And then abruptly stops grinning. He balances up on one arm and his hand lashes out, hard, fisting in Len's hair and dragging his head back.

"What--?"

"This." Geils traces a fingertip over a wash of faint red dots just under Len's jawline. Next to the bruises that are covering his neck, they're almost nothing.

Almost. But not.

"You've got five seconds to come up with a good explanation for how this happened," Geils says. And he knows, already. He doesn't need to ask. All this is formality, for form's sake.

Len takes all five seconds, and then mumbles an apology. "Master, I'm sorry--"

"I could ask you how this happened," Geils says -- and he's very proud of how even his voice sounds -- "but we both know it doesn't matter. You've got the suitcase you came here with. Get it, get dressed, get out." Geils lets go of Len's hair and shoves him, quite emphatically, onto the floor.

"Wait a minute. _Wait._ " Len scrambles to his feet. "Master -- _Geils_ \-- I have two months to go. I'm not -- I haven't -- you're not done with me yet."

Geils snorts and heads to his closet. "I am very much done with you."

"I don't -- but -- goddamnit, Geils -- Master. Please."

"Stammering isn't going to get you anywhere." Geils strips out of his jacket and hangs it up, then strips out of his pants, and the movements are oddly unfamiliar. He winces and puts the thought out of his mind. Len is still talking.

"It was Eric," he explains, as if knowing who, precisely, left those marks is going to make any difference. "He came over, and I thought--"

"I don't care." Geils takes his gun out of the holster, pulls the magazine out, and yanks the slide back, then opens up the safe and puts it away. "I don't give a damn who it was. You knew better. And I'm done with you, so get the fuck out of my house." The holster next, then the shirt. Geils lets out an involuntary pleased noise when the shirt finally comes off, and stretches a bit, rolling his shoulders back.

"Hurts?" Len asks. He steps forward and puts a hand on Geils's right shoulder. "Let me--"

"Get off," Geils says quietly. "If you think I'm going to waste my effort beating the shit out of you, think again. You don't deserve it."

Len's hand tightens. "It was Eric. He's been here before. The last time he was here you said--"

"Nice try. Now get off."

"Do you ever _feel_ anything?" Len asks. He doesn't let go. "Do you care who I've fucked, or are you kicking me out because that's how things are done?"

Geils sighs. He puts a hand over Len's and yanks it off, definitively but not violently. "Does it take me getting angry before you'll believe I feel something? I don't work that way. And you know that. Christ." Geils drops Len's hand. "I'm tired and very fucking disappointed in you. I want you out in half an hour. Now go." Geils tugs out an old, faded t-shirt and boxers and slides into both. He pushes past Len and gets into bed.

Christ, the sheets still smell like Leonard. Geils ignores it and turns over on his side.

"I wanted to get a _reaction_ out of you," Len murmurs. He doesn't reach out, doesn't sit down. He stays at Geils's side and waits for that elusive reaction that isn't coming. "I've been wanting that for the last ten months."

"Leonard..." Geils lets his voice trail off. "Twenty-four minutes, and I want you gone."

"...is that an invitation?" Len asks quietly.

"It's a fact of fucking life." Geils rolls onto his back. "You fucked up. You don't get a second chance. What are you after?"

Len draws the covers back and settles himslf on Geils's thighs. "One for the road?" he purrs.

Geils puts his hands behind his head and leans back into the pillows. He's hard, yeah -- could hardly not be, with Len on him that way -- but his expression is very guarded. "What good's it going to do?"

"Why does it have to do anything? Why can't it just be?" Len reaches over to the nightstand, dropping his chest over Geils's face; Geils closes his eyees for a moment while Len can't possibly see him.

"Fine," Geils whispers. He looks up again, dispassionate, relaxed. "Go fuck yourself."

"Now there's a reaction. Almost." Len quirks a smile and slides a slick hand over Geils's cock; Geils doesn't move, doesn't react. "Come on, _Master_. Have a fucking emotion." He sinks down hard, eyes squeezing shut, crying out with it. Geils stays silent and keeps his hands behind his head. He doesn't move, doesn't even look like he's breathing heavily. Nothing.

Len grows more agitated as he moves. "Damn it," he whispers, "damn it, damn it, Master, move, fucking move, fucking _say something_ \--"

"Are you quite finished?" Geils says, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh -- fuck you," Len pants, "no, I'm not done, not until I say I'm done--"

"Len, this is what's known as a mercy fuck. When you get off, it's over. So quit acting like it's something meaningful and just fucking come already." Geils sounds bored.

"No, I--" Len is too well trained. He's belonged to Geils for too long, and is too used to having those orders mean something. Geils telling him to come means he comes _right then_ , and Len can't stop himself. _When you get off, it's over._ And it doesn't matter. _Just fucking come already._ "No -- fuck -- no -- goddamnit, no, no, no, _no_ \--"

Geils hunches forward, just a little, and his eyes narrow, but they don't close. Len can feel the twitch of Geils's cock in his ass, and it doesn't matter that he's drawn something out of Geils. It's over. Done. And Len admitted to it by coming all over his _former_ Master's chest.

"Shit," Len whispers.

"Eight minutes. I want you gone."

Len leans forward and presses his lips to Geils's chest. "I love you," he whispers. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"Seven and a half minutes." Geils has relaxed back onto his arms, and as Len lifts himself off and keeps licking down his chest, Geils starts couting. "Seven minutes, twenty-eight seconds. Seven minutes, twenty-seven seconds..."

Len is fast, then. No choice. He licks his come off Geils's stomach and chest and buries his face, briefly, in Geils's stomach, while Geils counts off _Four minutes, twelve seconds. Four minutes, eleven seconds. Four minutes, ten seconds..._

"Just tell me you loved me," Len whispers. "Tell me it's not just because this is how it's done."

"Four minutes. Three minutes, fifty-nine seconds..."

"Are you determined to have me walk out of here hating you?"

Geils draws a gentle hand up to Len's cheek. "You wanted me to have a reaction. This is it, Leonard."

Len jerks away hard. He spins around and leaves Geils's bedroom, and takes off for the spare closet that holds his suitcase. He opens it and pulls out his clothes, and the material feels very strange against his skin. He zips the suitcase shut again, and picks it up in one hand. He stops long enough to close his eyes, and then walks out of the house, shaking only slightly, forcing himself not to look back.

Geils is still flat on his back in bed, and he whispers, "...two seconds. One second." to finish the count, even though Len is two minutes gone already. He closes his eyes and sinks hard into the bed, searching for sleep.


	2. Wrecked

Geils knows better than to go out clubbing alone when he's in this kind of mood. This is the kind of evening that's ready made for a shared night out with someone like Bale. Someone who's just as dark and cruel and vicious as Geils is, when he's in this sort of mood, but someone who also knows how to keep Geils from shattering all over the pavement. Playing with Bale means the safeties are off, but that doesn't mean Bale would let Geils simply go to ground without being sure he can get back up. There's an amount of -- well, no. It's not quite trust. It's faith. Unreasoned belief. That sounds about right.

But Bale's not around. Bale's got a new boy, and while Geils suspects this one isn't going to last forever -- does Bale even _want_ someone who'd last forever? -- he knows enough to wait until Bale calls him these days.

There's really no one else Geils can call about it. He supposes he could call Viggo, talk to him about Len, and Viggo would listen quietly and he'd have advice. But that really wouldn't do any good; Len is gone, Len is _over_ , and Geils... doesn't know what to do with himself.

So the club. And maybe he'll find some tricked-out twink who's too blasted to care if Geils drags him into the back room by his hair and pushes him face-first into the wall and fucks him until some of the anger and misery is gone. Or maybe he'll find someone dark and edgy who's looking for a fuck like that -- something hard and fast and unapologetic.

Maybe he'll just come home alone. That would not surprise him in the least. Come home alone and pop in a video and beat off to the sounds of screaming and impacts of flesh on flesh.

Christ, that's fucking pathetic. Geils isn't going to think about it.

The club pulses with life, but it's a dark pulse, and the life in it is somehow sinister. There's smoke, and the room is flashing lights that leave it more shadow than illumination, and Geils can hear the pounding of the bass beat reverberate through his skin. In this place, there are no smiles, only the lost laughter of people who have so little to lose that they're giving themselves up to cheap thrills and expensive highs.

Geils hates clubs.

He gets into the middle of the floor, but he's not dancing. He's stalking. Hunting. Looking for the right man for the evening. Convinced he's not going to find anything. No one is reaching out to touch him, in spite of the tight white t-shirt and the black jeans and the way his arms look like sculpted marble under the strobe lights. Geils is not surprised. No one ever reaches out for him in these clubs; he gives off something, an aura, maybe, that says _I'll touch you if I goddamned well want to, but don't even think about coming after me. I lead. I don't follow._

He's almost halfway onto the floor when an arm snakes around his waist. He's not startled; he doesn't move. He comes to a halt and waits to see what's happening.

The arm stays put, and it's joined by another hand. The hand draws around Geils's hip and slides down into the side of his pants. Holster. Knife. A chin hooks over Geils's shoulder and a voice murmurs -- well, it's not quite a murmur, since it has to be loud enough to be heard over the music -- "I should have known you'd be armed. Even dressed like that."

Geils's whole body goes rigid. He clamps his fingers around that searching hand and yanks it away. "Not interested," he says, not looking back.

"Fuck you, you're interested." The entire length of the man's body presses up behind Geils, and Geils lets his eyes close. It's all right to let his eyes close; Leonard isn't going to see it. "C'mon. _Master_. Take me home."

Geils twists out of Len's arms and pushes his way through the rest of the crowd. The back room. Now. Someone. Anyone.

Len follows, and as soon as Geils passes through the chains that make a rough doorway into the back room, he bares his teeth. He's staked his claim on Geils, and no one comes up to make Geils an offer.

Geils turns around, furious. He doesn't say a word, but his hand reaches up and grabs Len by the throat. He shoves Len out of the back room, back out through those chains, and pins him to the wall. Len hisses; a few strands of chain are wrapped around him now, and he's pinning two strands to the wall with his back; he can feel them digging into his spine. Geils stares into Len's eyes for several long seconds.

"Fuck. You." Geils manages.

There's something a bit like triumph in Len's eyes. "A reaction. _Finally._ Take me home, Master." His voice goes so quiet Geils can't hear it, but he can read the word off Len's lips; he saw it often enough when Len was his. "Please."

"Why?" Geils asks. He squeezes Len's throat harder, as if by cutting off Len's air he can cut off the snotty attitude and the look in Len's eyes that always wanted to push Geils one step further than he needed to go. Len doesn't even seem to notice, though he stops speaking aloud. He's left to mouth words, forcing Geils to lipread -- not that Geils has any choice, really, in a club this loud. In a place like this it's body language and the bare hint of lips moving that gets people going.

Len's body goes slack under Geils's hand, and the message is clear: submission, plain and simple, no strings attached. No strings, maybe, but Len is still pinning those chains to the wall, and Geils knows better than to take a boy home when there are chains involved. He shakes his head and draws his hand away.

Len reaches out and fists a hand in the center of Geils's shirt. "Please," he says. "Master."

"No." Geils punctuates it with a shake of his head; he grabs Len's wrist and yanks it backwards, pulling it away from his shirt. "No."

The club was a very fucking bad idea. Home, and his couch, and his videotapes, are seeming less unappealing by the moment. Geils's skin itches; he feels exposed, laid bare, and he needs to get the hell out of here _right fucking now_.

He makes his way back across the floor, and when he's outside he closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a long breath. He reaches into his pocket for cigarettes and lights one, snapping the matte black Zippo shut with more force than is probably necessary.

"Master. Please. Christ, I miss you."

Geils doesn't even spare him a look. He shoves the Zippo back into his pocket and takes another drag off his cigarette, exhaling hard at the moon.

He doesn't see it when Len drops to his knees on the pavement. When Len puts his hands to the ground on either side of Geils's feet and presses his lips to Geils's boot. When Len puts his forehead on cold, stale concrete and waits for an answer.

He taps a bit of ash off his cigarette and watches as it falls on Len's back, white ash marking black t-shirt and settling. "You're not mine anymore," Geils says quietly. He can afford to be quiet now; they're out in the air, out in the open, and... goddamnit, Len looks so fucking good on his knees. "You know what I do to boys who aren't mine?"

"...I know."

Geils steps around Len and walks down the street to his car, flicking his cigarette away as he goes. He hears the quick double-step of Len's feet on the pavement, hurrying to catch up with him. Geils gets in and reaches over to unlock the passenger door, and Len yanks the door open as if he's afraid Geils is going to change his mind. Len gets in and slams the door shut, and looks over at Geils; Len is, for once, without words.

That suits Geils just fine. He snaps his seatbelt on, waits for Len to do the same, and pulls off into the street, leaving trails of smoking rubber on the ground behind him.


	3. Debris

The night has long since settled in. Geils navigates the streets with unerring efficiency; he knows precisely where he's going.

He hasn't bothered looking at Len. Not much point, really. They both know what they're doing. Or at least Geils hopes like hell Len knows what he's getting into--

 _Stop it._

Geils turns into an alley and then turns again into an abandoned gravel parking lot. He stops the car and steps out, reaching for another cigarette and leaning against the hood.

Len walks around and goes to his knees in the gravel. The crunch under his feet as he shifts makes Geils hold his breath; Len always did know what got to him.

 _And if you'd let on about that, he never would have--_

 _ Stop it. _

Geils drops his cigarette and steps on it. He puts his foot on Len's knee afterwards and murmurs, "Crawl back and kiss it."

Len doesn't hesitate. He crawls back on his hands and knees and presses his lips to the toe of Geils's boot. Then the other. And then he's moaning, practically attacking them, tongue coming out and flicking over the leather.

"Stop," Geils snorts, half-impressed, half-annoyed. "You're too fucking hungry for it, boy." _Shit.  
_ Geils closes his eyes for a moment and struggles for composure. It was habit. It was accidental. And he meant it.

"Master, please, I'm sorry, Jesus, thank you, I just... I'm so fucking grateful to be here, Master."

"Don't fucking call me 'Master'," Geils growls. He crouches down and grabs a fistful of Len's hair. "You lost that. You fucking threw it away." He gives Len a rough shake. "Was it worth it?"

"No," Len whimpers. "It was stupid, and I'm sorry, and... oh, God, Geils, I've missed you."

"Yeah," Geils whispers. "It was very fucking stupid." He crushes Len's face into the gravel. His hand trails down Len's body, and his pace stutters -- Len's lost weight. He was always thin; now, though, it's more pronounced. It's only been a month. It feels like Len's lost about fifteen pounds, and he really didn't have them to begin with.

 _Don't ease up. He's not here for you to ease up._

Geils's hand is on Len's belt, now, and it's the same studded belt with grommets that Len was wearing the night they met. Geils grins at that and shoves Len over, onto his back. There are scratches on his face from the gravel. Geils reaches for his belt and unbuckles it, yanking it off; Len arches up and helps.

"Get undressed," Geils says. He takes the belt and wraps it around his hand; Len's eyes light, and he scrambles to get out of his clothes, leaving them on the gravel. "On your knees," he adds.

Len feels gravel bite into his knees, his palms; he wants it so badly he can barely breathe. He nods, three times, hard, trying to keep himself from begging.

"You're not mine anymore," Geils whispers. "This isn't because I love you. It's not because I want you. It's because you're the first trick to offer tonight, and I don't feel like taking the time to look for someone I actually _want_ tonight."

Len doesn't say a word. His head drops, and his shoulders shake. He nods, again three times, but now it isn't so vehement.

"You don't count when I hit you. You don't have an ounce of control over what I'm going to do to you, and I don't want you pretending to yourself you do. You stay silent unless you need to scream." Geils trails the end of the belt across Len's ass. "You got it?"

Geils doesn't wait for an answer. He lashes out hard, with the side that only has the grommets at first. He strikes once, twice, three times, four, and then he simply goes all-out, lashing until he draws the first scream out of Len's throat.

"Fucking pussy," Geils growls. "Never could take a goddamned thing. Tough fucking luck for you." And he switches his strokes so the studs and the grommets come down hard and bite into Len's flesh. Len bruises immediately, skin going red and swelling; it takes a good dozen strokes and twice as many screams before Geils draws blood.

Once upon a time he would have leaned forward and licked it up; now he doesn't have that luxury, and so he smears the blood across his hand and puts his hand at Len's face. "Taste yourself," he growls. "Show me you can take it."

Len moans and licks the blood off Geils's palm, off his fingers; that's good enough for Geils. He jerks away and unzips his pants, slicking on a condom. The lube on the condom's enough; Geils knows Len barely even needs that. He slaps Len's ass hard, and growls out, "Go loose." It's all the warning Len gets before Geils drives in hard.

Len screams and pushes back, and Geils is brutal. He shoves in hard, then harder, until Len loses his balance and Geils is pounding him into the gravel, pushing Len until his face is grinding into the ground.

Geils grabs Len's hips and yanks him back. "Yeah," he groans, "oh, fuck, yeah," and he slams in one more time, shouting as he comes. The pulses are so good he can't just hold still; he pumps in again, and again, until he's gasping for breath and collapsed against Len's back, murmuring desperately.

A few seconds pass, and Geils feels Len shaking under him, shaking in uncontrolled spasms. Geils yanks out and dumps the condom on the ground; he stands and pulls his pants up.

Len is still a shaking, shivering mess on his knees. Geils strides to his car door and yanks it open, then pauses with his hand on the door handle.

"Shit," he breathes. He kneels down next to Len and grabs him by the upper arm, pulling him up and shoving him into the back seat. He tosses Len's clothes and shoes in after him, then gets in and drives off.

"Did you--" Len coughs. "Did you mean it? Tell me you meant it."

"Leonard, be still," Geils murmurs.

"Tell me you meant it."

"Get dressed."

Len lets out a muffled groan as he struggles into his shirt; his pants he simply drapes over his lower half, unwilling to struggle into them. "You meant it," he says, "please, Geils."

Geils doesn't answer. He concentrates on driving, not speeding, following all the rules of the road.

"Do you know where I'm living these days?" Len asks.

"Leonard..." Geils sighs and digs a cigarette out of his pocket; he lights it and tosses the pack on the dashboard.

Len is quiet as Geils keeps driving. By the time Geils pulls into his garage, Len knows where they're going. His heart leaps into his chest. _Home._ Geils's home. He lets out a very slow breath.

"Come on," Geils says softly. He helps Len out of the back seat -- shit, he'll have to clean up the leather later -- and wraps an arm around him to help him upstairs. Len leans heavily against him.

"Missed you," Len mumbles. "Missed you so much."

"Come on." Geils pulls Len into the master bathroom. He sets Len against the counter and leans over to run a bath, setting the water temperature to Len's preferences. Len watches him with too-bright eyes and tries to school the expression off his face. When the water level's high enough, Geils helps Len out of his shirt and puts him in the bathwater. Len hisses as his ass hits the water, but quickly settles down. He reaches out of the water and puts his hand against Geils's cheek.

"Tell me you meant it," Len begs.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Geils grunts; he lathers up a bath sponge and begins washing Len's arms and hands with patient gentleness, carefully working dirt out of the scratches on Len's hands.

"At the end," Len whispers, "after, you said--" He winces as Geils brushes at the heel of his hand with a particularly hard stroke.

"Don't," Geils says. "It's not going to get you anywhere."

"You said _Good boy_ ," Len whispers, "and you said _Love you_."

Geils doesn't respond; he reaches into the water and keeps working dirt out of Len's wounds, pushing at him to turn over when it's time.

"I did love you," Len murmurs. "I wish you'd said so sooner."

"I don't think it would have made any difference," Geils says. "Stop it now, Leonard. I'm not taking you back."

"I know."

At the end of the bath, Geils lets out the water and towels Len off, taking great care with his hands, knees, face, ass, thighs. He helps Len back into his clothes and leads him back down to the car. He opens the passenger door, and Len slides in.

"I'm sorry," Len says again.

"Stop it," Geils tells him, backing out of the driveway. "It doesn't matter."

"it matters to me. I just want you to know... I understand what I gave up."

Geils is silent for the rest of the drive; somehow it doesn't surprise Len that Geils knows exactly where he lives. Geils gets out and walks around the car to let Len out.

"Geils..."

Geils pushes Len into the side of the car and tangles his fingers in Len's hair. "I know," Geils whispers, "and I'm sorry, too. I do love you. But it doesn't matter. It's over." He draws his lips down to Len's, and Len clutches at him, moaning.

"Please," Len whispers, "come up. Stay. Please. Master. Please."

"We both know I can't," Geils whispers. "Good night, Len."

Len stays outside after Geils pulls away. Going in would mean giving up. Going in would mean admitting Geils isn't coming back.

He'll have to go in sooner or later. But not yet.

Not yet.


End file.
